To the Waters and the Wild
by stress
Summary: Welcome to New York, thought Kit, where the fairies are more than little men in green vests – they wear more rouge for a start – and the waterfalls are nothing more than grey rivers teeming with sludge. Welcome to New York. Welcome home.
1. January 28, 1900, part one

**Disclaimer**: Any characters you recognize in this story are the property of Disney and their likenesses are only used for fan related purposes. Any original characters featured are the intellectual property of their creators.

**Author's Note**: This is my attempt at writing a multi-chaptered fic for the new Newsies Union. In case you're unfamiliar with the Union, it's a character-based writing circle/RP group where you apply to lodging houses and then write stories based on the characters in your lodging house. I applied to the Greenwich Village Lodging House and brought to life the character of Kit Harding. The story that follows is her story and... um... it's going to be interesting. I hope you enjoy it!

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><p><strong>To the Waters and the Wild<strong>

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><p><em>Come away, O human child!<br>To the waters and the wild  
>With a faery, hand in hand<br>For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand._

– "The Stolen Child", William Butler Yeats

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><p><em><strong>January 28, 1900<strong>_

The music from the Black Rabbit leaked out onto the streets at all hours of the day but at sunset, when night crept in like one of the Rabbit's backdoor patrons, it seemed even louder. More alive. And the laughter, oh the _laughter_...

Kit Harding cocked her head to the side and closed her eyes for just a moment to pretend she couldn't hear the laughter that seeped its way over to where she stood on the edge of Bleecker Street. She'd made the mistake of going inside the establishment once—just _once—_and the laughter was the least of what she had seen but the only thing she allowed herself to remember. Regardless of what her father thought, she was still a good girl and good girls didn't visit such places, even if they were past seventeen years of age and already so very world-weary.

The truth was that it made her twitchy, coming this close to the Black Rabbit, but she _had_ promised her uncle she would tell him when she made up her mind about leaving and for all the girl's faults—and, she allowed, there were plenty—telling fibs wasn't one of them. Sure, it was fine and dandy to tell a wee one in order to make a sale but Kit wasn't about to go back on her word.

Even if it meant she had to spend an awkward evening standing outside the decadent club front, waiting for her uncle to emerge from within the darkness of the Rabbit...

The wind was picking up a little. An unseasonably warm day for winter in Greenwich Village had given way to a chilly evening and if Kit was the sort of girl to show her weaknesses, she would be shivering. Instead, jutting out her chin in defiance of the weather, she pulled her knitted shawl closer with one hand while reaching behind her with the other. Her fingers groped for the slim cardboard box she had tucked in the hem of her long brown skirt, slipped securely underneath her cream-colored shirtwaist, and she huffed a job well done when she finally closed in on it.

The box was slightly crushed for having been hidden; the image of a cherubic little angel was creased but she could still make out the words dashed blow that read: _Our Little Beauties. _Disregarding the cigarette card still inside the box, Kit pulled out one of the few cigarettes left still remaining and perched it lightly between her lips.

Back home, back in Village Leitrim, she only had been able to smoke hand-rolled's when she could convince one of the farmers' boys to give her one, and that was _if_ she could convince them. Now, though, now she could buy a box of cigarettes whenever she wanted which she did and with far more regularity these last few weeks. Christmas had been rough, that damn anniversary in early January even worse, and it seemed like a lit cigarette was the only thing that could calm her these days.

And it wasn't like Uncle Charlie minded. He didn't. In fact, her uncle—barely a handful of years older than Kit herself—he always seemed ready to approve of the exact things that would've upset her father if he were there which was probably one of the reasons why Joseph McElroy thought of his younger brother as backwards.

Of course, having lived with Uncle Charlie these last six months, Kit knew it wasn't the _only_ reason...

She had just finished tussling with the box of matches she kept stowed away in the slight gap between her stockinged feet and the inside of her heeled shoe, cursing under her breath in a strange mix of English, Gaelic and Italian as she was reminded just how difficult it was to strike a match while holding onto her shawl _and_ trying to shield the flame from the wind at the same time when a shadow suddenly fell at her feet and she glanced up in barely masked surprise. Usually just being near the Black Rabbit meant that most people passing through this part of town ignored her, either because they weren't interested in a pretty young girl who haunted out the corner in front of 183 Bleecker Street or because they just weren't interested in a pretty young girl in general.

And then, sometimes, because Kit Harding was, to her ever loving shame and despite her attempts to remedy that, still petite and slender with chestnut-colored hair and eyes like the sea—blue and deep and absolutely dangerous—that were currently narrowed in open dislike, she would run into big, oafish fellows like the one standing in front of her who were too thick to string half a clue together.

He was tall which wasn't saying much since most everyone she met since arriving in America seemed a giant to her, and he was wide. Barrel-chested. Strong. She supposed he was handsome enough—he had all his own teeth and the hair sticking out from under his hat was fair and clean—but he was the worst kind of handsome: the sort who thought too highly of himself and expected a girl on her own to think so, too.

If Kit had been foolish enough to stand beneath a gas lamp, lit or not, then he would have leaned against it in an attempt to come off as suave. Only she hadn't and he had to make due with resting back on his heels, his arms crossed over his chest as he smiled down on her. He must have thought he looked charming. Kit just wished he'd leave her to smoke her cigarette in peace.

"Why," he said, and his voice was deep and gravelly, "hello there."

Her first thought was a hope that he was trying to start up a conversation with someone else on the street but, since she was the only one standing there, she gave up on that. Her second thought was more of a seasoned observation: she noticed that he spoke without any noticeably foreign accent. A Native then, not Irish like Kit or Italian like most of the people who lived in the area. Almost unconsciously she made the choice to mimic his tone, drop her _g_'s and add a duller edge to her _d's—_what she thought to herself as the New York accent—before she realized that, if she didn't say anything at all, maybe he would just go away.

It was another false hope.

He jerked his head at the cigarette she held in one hand while cupping her elbow in the other. "Nice night for a smoke," he added needlessly.

Kit made a noncommittal sound as she nodded, purposely taking a long drag off of her cigarette before blowing the stream of smoke out softly. She hoped he would get the hint and go.

He didn't.

Instead, leering appreciatively at her action, his lips curling as he angled his head downwards in order to get a better look at her, he moved a little closer so that there could be no denying he was trying to talk to her. "Name's Trev," he added.

So? Kit looked at a point past him and still didn't say anything at all. Her cigarette was halfway gone. It was disappearing too quickly for her liking.

"What 'bout you?" persisted Trev. "You got a name?"

"Kathleen," she offered shortly after a few tense seconds because, well, something told her that he wasn't leaving without hers and she knew when to pick her battles. Her nickname was sacred; she kept that to herself. Kathleen was worthless—he could have that and that was all he could have.

Trev certainly was a thick one, or perhaps he was clever enough to disregard Kit's less-than-pleased greeting. "'S a pretty name, Kathleen," he murmured and she was sure she heard the slur in his voice. Not even sunset yet and this one had already had been at the bottle. _Wonderful._ "Pretty name, right, for a pretty girl. Heh, heh."

She had to work hard to bite back another torrent of curses while keeping her expression carefully blank. He didn't deserve to call her Kit and Kathleen _was _her given name but, darn it, did he have to call it _pretty_? She tried her best to be anything _but_: wiping dust and dirt across her cheeks to hide how fair and pale they were; refusing to brush her hair until it was a tangle and a mess that knotted itself; smearing ash on her skirt and letting the ends of her sleeves get frayed. And that laugh, tacked on right at the end of his comment, almost like a slap... it made her jaw clench and her skin crawl.

Kit took another drag off her cigarette and exhaled roughly. "It's a name, that's all it is." She turned away, glancing over at the Black Rabbit's facade. Where in the world was her uncle? What was taking him so long?

She was going to have to go in there and get him, wasn't she?

Another puff, followed by a sigh of resignation.

_Damn_ it.

Trev was still trying to get her attention. He took a step closer to her so that he was right at her back. This close she could smell the rank alcohol that clung to his shirt. Her stomach heaved and she took another drag, trying not to notice it—or the fact that he was hovering over her.

"So, Kathleen," he said, and she could feel his hot breath warming her up in a way that was entirely unpleasant, "tell me: what you doin' waitin' outside a place like _that_?" She turned to look over at him in time to notice him waving his hand aimlessly behind him in the direction of the Rabbit. His broad nose was wrinkled in distaste, there were furrows in his brow. Maybe his skin was crawling now, too.

Still, Kit was a touch impressed. Most folks in Greenwich Village knew about the Black Rabbit's reputation but for the sake of decency and their own pride, they pretended they didn't. And then the big oaf went on to add with a sneer—

"Pretty thing like you, don't tell me you're one of them? It would be such a waste. Heh, heh."

—and she decided that, so long as she kept her eyes down and found another of her uncle's friends first, it would be worth it to nip inside if only to get away from this Trev.

She took one last, long drag off her cigarette, sucking on the ends as if the tobacco would give her the strength to walk right inside the Black Rabbit and then, still ignoring her company, she threw the ends to the dirt and brushed some of the gravel over it to extinguish the dying embers. That accomplished, she started for the door.

"Where ya goin'? Kathleen?"

Kit began to remove her shawl, pretending she hadn't heard him call after her; it was easy, seeing as how she never answered to Kathleen anymore, not if she could help it. From her memory, she remembered that it was hot inside the Rabbit no matter how chilly it was outside. Balling her shawl up, she tucked it at her side and kept on walking.

She was just a few feet away from the front entrance when Trev came after her.

"Hey," he shouted hotly, grabbing her by her upper arm and whirling Kit around so that she was eye to eye with his chest, "I was talkin' to you!"

She froze immediately, tensing underneath his iron grip, and then, without a word, a cry or a scream, Kit purposefully lowered her gaze to Trev's feet.

Or, to be more precise, his _shoes_.

They were cheap. Thin. Flimsy. They weren't boots, or even the sort of shoes that had thick leather on the top to protect the toes and worn out soles that barely lasted. No, they were silly things, barely leather at all, cracked along the edge with laces that could barely pass for twine.

Kit bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. At least there was one thing about that night that was going in her favor.

Because, you see, she knew she would never have a chance against his upper body, his arms, his hands, his brute strength. Trev was a big man, built like an ox, and now that he grabbed her, she wouldn't get away without help. But she had one thing on her side: the element of surprise. He wouldn't expect her to fight back, not a short, waifish girl like Kit, and she had to admit that being short had its advantages sometimes. She was quick. She was a smaller target. And, most importantly, she knew the significance—the_ weakness_—of feet. She was close enough to the ground to remember them.

She didn't have to look down at her own. She knew exactly what sort of shoes she was wearing—they were good country shoes, thick leather tops, buttons on the sides for a bit of design, and, oh yes, _heels_.

It wasn't that pointed of a heel at the end of each of her shoes. In fact, she would have to admit it was more of a thick, sensible square that lent her a little bit of height when she needed it, except Kit had spent the first night after she bought them with a sharp kitchen knife, filing down the back end for when it wasn't just height she was after but a bit of weight instead.

One quick step. That was all it took. One quick step and the point of Kit's heel wasn't against the dirt anymore but right on the top of his foot where the bones were brittle and easily broken and his flimsy shoes provided no protection.

He was surprised. She could see it in his mud-brown eyes, could hear it in the way he gasped and winced and tightened his grip on her arm. Kit would have a bruise there come morning but if that was all, she'd be grateful. She pressed down with just a little more force, hoping he thought that was all she was capable of, and said softly in a voice that mimicked Trev's, "That's my heel you feel in your foot. I may not weigh much but I know very well the kind of damage I could do with one wrong step. So let me ask you, _Trev_: are you gonna let me go or am I going to have to do something about this?"

His laugh rang out on the street but seeing as how it was Bleecker Street, no one paid either of them any notice. "You think you're hurtin' me? C'mon, Kathleen, this is just a little bit of fun. You want me to take a turn? Now you... you I could really hurt."

"I'm sure you could," conceded Kit, "but not here. Not now. So you go on—let go of me. You get your big, dirty mitts off me right this second and I'll try not to dig my heel any more than I already have. No? Alright then."

And she pushed. She pushed as hard as she could.

He grunted, more of a groan really as Kit—who he could probably snap in half if she gave him the chance but she wouldn't and, up until then, he'd been humoring her—pressed down with just enough in just the right spot to cause the most amount of pain possible. There was an audible snap, Trev's face turned bright red as he hollered out what could have been a curse or maybe even a cry for the Lord, and he shoved Kit away from him.

She stumbled, not quite prepared for his push. Her heel had still been digging into the front of his shoe and it wasn't ready to find purchase against the uneven cobblestones just yet. But Kit didn't fall, though it did look like she might for a moment, and though she stumbled, she was back on her feet in a few seconds.

A few seconds was all it took for Trev—blind with sudden rage and fury—to step forward and get ready to retaliate. He reared his arm back, his hand already folding itself up tight as he got ready to strike, to push her as hard as he could again, to knock her to the ground, _anything_, and—

_Whoomp._

—something caught his fist. And _squeezed. _Drops of blood dripped down onto the cobbles immediately, staining them crimson where they fell.

This time Trev did more than just groan: the big man _whimpered_. There was pain when the girl stepped on his foot and maybe he shouldn't have tried to take a swing at her but he was paying for it now. It was like his hand was caught in a trap, the slice, the heat and the sticky wetness that suddenly coated his knuckles, dripping into the webs of his fingers, dropping to the ground. His hand was in agony and he didn't know why.

And then he heard, in a voice thick with an Irish brogue and a touch more feminine than he would expect for a grip like that—

"What's this, eh? Not tryin' to to raise your hand to a girl, are you?"

Trev whipped his head around and for one, horrible second, just stared.

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><p><strong>End Note:<strong> This is the first half of the opening chapter before I delve back into the past and explore more of Kit's journey about who she is, why she is where she is and what happened to her. I made a point of putting in references to her past, names and occasions, but it will all be explained as the story unfolds :) Right now I have it planned out at 11 chapters so... yes. The next chapter should be up fairly soon because, well, I can't wait to introduce you to her savior, heh.

Thank you for starting Kit's story! It's going to be quite a wild ride.

- _stress, 02.07.12_


	2. January 28, 1900, part two

**Disclaimer**: Any characters you recognize in this story are the property of Disney and their likenesses are only used for fan related purposes. Any original characters featured are the intellectual property of their creators.

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><p><strong>To the Waters and the Wild<strong>

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><p>The first thing people noticed when they met Charles McElroy at the start was the rouge; he made sure of it by powdering his face first so that the red would stick out even more. With the carefully styled black curls and the painted cheeks, it was easy to look past the fact that, while he was very tall and willowy, there were taut muscles stretched out under his pale skin and his height was a great advantage in a fight that only someone foolish and unprepared might start. Though he was a city boy now, Charlie grew up in good old Ireland where his fanciful ways left him a punching bag for the local lads until he learned not only to punch back but to bite, kick, scratch back too.<p>

Trev struggled because, like many who met Charlie for the first time, he thought him weak and strange. It only got worse when he realized that, besides the fact that he couldn't escape Charlie's grip, every time he yanked on his hand, the pain was absolutely unbearable.

"_You_?"

"Me," Charlie said with a cheeky grin. He didn't let go of Trev's fist. "You want to tell me why you were gonna strike dear Kathleen here?"

Trev spat at Charlie's feet; he wasn't so far gone that he actually spit on the Irish man himself, though it was pretty clear he wanted to. "Ha! I don't have to tell you nothin', you damn fair—_unh_!"

"Sorry 'bout that, boyo. See, I like holdin' onto the hand of a strappin' young fella so much, sometimes I just gotta squeeze to make sure they don't get away from me. Didn't hurt, did it?"

Trev was panting. Kit had the vantage point of being able to see both his reaction and her uncle's. Uncle Charlie was visibly enjoying himself, though she could tell he was seriously considering what would have happened if he had stepped out only a second or two later—to be honest, Kit was kind of wondering that, too, but not much because what would wondering do?—but Trev... he was being forced to his knees, his face twisted in pain. Whatever Uncle Charlie was doing to Trev's hand, he _was_ hurting.

Good, she thought bitterly. He deserved it.

With his free hand, Charlie tapped the edge of his chin thoughtfully. "Fairy, mm, what an interesting word. It seems to me you were tryin' to call me a fairy earlier and, you know, you're spot on there. So's most of my pals right behind me, aye, and they'll come right on out here if I holler for 'em. See, now, I might not be too interested in a big bloke like you who's keen on hittin' girls, but the Rabbit... we accept 'em all inside. We sure get 'em all, and I'm thinkin' you'll fit in all right, plenty of the fellas wouldn't mind a piece of you—oh, dear, you're lookin' a wee bit pale..."

"Trev," supplied Kit, who was watching this exchange with all the relish of an afternoon at the flickers.

"Trev, yes," cooed Charlie, "those cheeks have lost all their color. I'd offer you some of my rouge but something tells me ye wouldn't be interested... So, aye, why don't I tell you a secret about fairies instead? You want to hear it?" He squeezed Trev's hand again, not as tightly before, but tight enough to remind him of the pain. Trev gasped, just managing to nod. "I thought you would. The thing about fairies is, if you catch us in a good mood, we don't mind grantin' wishes. Now, Trev, what is it _you _wish?"

Contrary to all evidence otherwise, Trev had some brains inside that thick head of his. So, rather than come up with a smart remark, he simply gulped. "I wish I was anywhere else but here." He glanced over his shoulder where Kit was getting ready to light up another cigarette. "I wish I never laid eyes on her."

"Ah, now that's a good one," Charlie said amiably, and he finally released Trev's hand. "Wish granted. Now get the hell on out of here, boyo, before I introduce you to me pals."

You could see it, Kit thought, the split second of indecision when he wondered just how quick he'd have to be to kick Uncle Charlie in the gut and maybe even give her a slap for his troubles before half the Rabbit was on him. No matter how quick, though, he'd never be quick enough and Kit's lips curved around the end of her cigarette when she saw the realization dawn on Trev's face. He really was sort of handsome... if only he wasn't such a twit.

Cradling his bloody hand close, Trev cast one further look at Kit—it was a look of pure loathing, though he couldn't quite hide the lust still—and then started down the rest of Bleecker Street at a pace much quicker than a walk and just shy of a run. Kit struck a match and thought of the dull ache in her arm. If he came nosing around this part of tiown again, it would be too soon.

Maybe, mused Kit as she shook her match out and took the first drag off her smoke, standing outside the Black Rabbit wasn't as bad an idea as she thought...

As soon as they had seen the backside of Trev, Charlie swooped in and kissed Kit on both of her cheeks. "Kit, _a leanbh na p__á__irte_, they told me you were out here. Been waitin' long?"

With Uncle Charlie around, Kit found it only too easy to lapse back into her normal manner of speaking; the brogue wasn't as thick as it used to be, but it was something. "Aye, uncle, long enough for that goon to think he could try something," she told him, waving her hand dismissively, ashing her cigarette as she did so, "but I'm just fine now, thanks to your habit of knowin' just the right time to come out."

"Thank you," Charlie said with a mock bow, "thank you. No trouble, I assure ye."

"He was all hot air and posin', if you're askin' me, but I'm grateful all the same." Kit said with a shrug because, now that Trev had run off with his tail between his legs, she wasn't going to let him bother her anymore, though she still had to add, "Only..."

"Aye?"

Her blue eyes sparkled in curiosity. "What did you do to his hand? I saw the blood, I saw him lookin' like he was gettin' ready to bawl, though I can't say I understand how ya managed it."

"It's like I said... the Black Rabbit," admitted Charlie, "we get all sorts. It's best to be prepared." And he opened his hand to reveal a set of small, sharp razors twisted onto slim pieces of metal in order to resemble the most dangerous rings Kit had ever seen in her life.

She let out a small laugh and, on impulse, gave him a quick hug. "I'm sure gonna miss you, Uncle Charlie."

Charlie patted her on her head affectionately—he was the only one living in this world, save for maybe Gideon, who could get away with that and still have five fingers left when he was done—though he couldn't quite hide his frown when Kit stepped away from him again. "So ye find it then? A place of your own to stay?"

Kit nodded. "I just finished settlin' things with Mrs. Heartwick—"

"Mrs. Heartwick? You mean Arthur's mama? The boy who runs that black and tan club? Heartwick's Saloon, aye, it must be."

In the six months since she had been living with her uncle, Kit had long ago stopped being amazed at how it seemed like Charlie McElroy knew everyone in Greenwich Village. She nodded again. "Aye. She's givin' me a bunk over at her lodging house. It's nice... clean, three floors, a rooftop and it's only five cents a night. Same for meals." She hesitated for just a moment before continuing, "It's a place for girls like me, uncle. And it's not like I don't like livin' with ya... it's just—"

"It's just not the right place for a seventeen-year-old lass," Charlie said knowingly, finishing Kit's sentence for her.

"Exactly," she agreed, though she'd rather cut her own tongue out before admitting that it wasn't Uncle Charlie's style of living that convinced her that she had to go but, rather, the fact that, for once in her life, she wanted to live on her own, be on her own without someone—her Da, Gideon, Jimmy, Uncle Charlie...—watching out for her. For the first time ever, Kit Harding was going to look out for herself. "But I'll still visit," she added, because being on her own was one thing, but she still knew the value of holding on tight to the only family she had left. "I'll come by to check in with you whenever I can."

It was Charlie's turn to laugh as he reached over and pinched Kit's dusty cheek. "You're damn right you will, _a leanbh na p__á__irte._" He waggled his finger in such a stern impression of his older brother that, for one heartbeat, she was almost convinced he _was_ her father—if her strait-laced, God-fearing father ever powdered his face or deigned to wear rouge. "I expect to see your ugly mug at my table every Sunday for supper, and no, I won't take any excuses from you, either, young lady!" He laughed again and, when he held his hand out, there was no gesturing finger—just an expectant hold.

Kit wordlessly handed her cigarette over. Her uncle took a great big pull, the end lit up to a cherry red, and when he exhaled, he looked like he was breathing smoke. "So, Greenwich Village Lodging House, huh?"

She nodded.

"Why not Little Italy? Don't you sell your papers down that way sometimes, _dear_? And your Italian's been improvin' lately, even Giuseppe says he can stand to listen to you now without wanting to stick cotton in his ears."

She thought of her uncle's friend, Giuseppe. A middle-aged Italian who spent more years in Italy than living in America, he was the first one Kit went to when she decided that knowing some of the language would help her blend better in this neighborhood. He lasted two hours, complained that her accent was atrocious and that she made it sound like Gaelic no matter what, and refused to teach her another word. So Uncle Charlie's friend Nunzio took over and she was actually passable at it after a few months of early morning studies.

"_Grazie_," she said before switching accents right back to match her uncle,"but I thought it best if I I stuck around."

"Close enough to the Rabbit but not _too _close?"

"Something like that," agreed Kit.

"Good. Can't have me venturin' out of Greenwich Village anyway." Charlie took another drag, his blue eyes—the same as Kit's, with that same dangerous edge—sparkling mischievously. "Irish _and _a fairy? Good Lord, even He wouldn't be able to save me then."

She didn't know if she should laugh or sigh and settled on a mixture of both as she said under her breath, "Ah, _uncail_..."

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><p>It was still light out when Charlie finished Kit's cigarette and, with another kiss on the cheek, left her to make her way over to the Greenwich Village Lodging House on her own. After the run-in with that Trev, he was a little more hesitant than usual to leave her be but Kit insisted and there was nothing even Charlie McElroy could do when his wayward niece had her mind set on something.<p>

Besides, the Black Rabbit was set at 183 Bleecker while Mrs. Heartwick's Greenwich Village Lodging House was located just down the street, at number 127. Not even Kit could get into trouble in such a short trip.

The lodging house was a big enough building, three floors and a rooftop that could be reached by a set of metal stairs that ran from the ground up, a fire escape right on the second floor. As she walked up to it, she saw the steps—four or five of them, tops—that led her right to the wide porch and a shiny brass plaque overhead proclaiming the place to be the Greenwich Village Lodging House.

There were a set of white wicker chairs set at the corners of the porch but they were unoccupied. Which was strange, Kit thought, considering there was a girl sitting on the uppermost step, her head bowed down, overlooking something she had something in her lap. As she drew closer, Kit saw that she was holding a pencil, scribbling in some sort of book.

Unsure if it would be wise to interrupt her or not, Kit didn't say a word though she made a point to walk with a little more force than was necessary as she approached the entrance. Her shoes echoed against the ground until she was at the foot of the first step and she paused, waiting.

After only a few seconds, the girl paused in her scribbling before glancing up. She noticed Kit standing there and made a point to close her journal. She left it resting in the lap of her dark green skirt, placing her pencil gently on top before folding her hands neatly over it. She smiled, the same sort of dazzling smile that seemed at home on her pale, fair-featured face, and waved Kit closer.

Kit waved back and pointedly stayed where she was.

The girl laughed. "Now," she said, and from the first word the rich and lyrical lilt of her Irish brogue was even more noticeable than Kit's, "I think I've seen ya before but your name escapes me, love. What was it again?"

"Kit," Kit told her. This girl... this girl could have her nickname. After all, she'd given it to her yesterday, hadn't she? This wasn't a place for _Kathleen_'s.

"Nice to meet ya, Kit. They call me Footsteps. Footsteps Callaway."

She remembered. "We met yesterday."

Footsteps slapped her hands on top of her closed book, just missing the point of the pencil. "Aye, and we did. For shame for me forgettin' ya." She snapped her long, slender fingers. "Showin' ya 'round the House and the Village if I remember right. I see you've got it in your head to stay. I'm glad. Welcome."

"It seems a nice place."

"It is," Footsteps agreed, though Kit thought she heard a touch of wistfulness in the girl's soft voice. Almost, it seemed, as if she was trying to convince herself of that fact more than Kit. As if she thought that, perhaps, there might be someone better...

And, like the day before, she stopped to wonder how in the world Footsteps earned her nickname. But she wouldn't ask. Just like she wouldn't ask what Footsteps was doing when Kit arrived. It didn't escape her notice that Footsteps guarded that little journal like a dragon on a hoard and, despite her friendly facade, Kit knew better than to trust a pretty face.

After all, she was one. And, she admitted, one would be a right, daft old fool to trust _her_.

So, rather than ask any questions at all, Kit reached behind her again for her treasured box of _Our Little Beauties_, fishing inside the rough cardboard interior until she snagged a fresh cigarette. There was only one more left—she'd have to stop and buy another box if sales went well tomorrow—but, in a rare gesture of friendship to someone who wasn't Yeats, she wordlessly offered it to Footsteps.

"No, not me," Footsteps said, shaking her head. Her long wavy hair swayed with the motion and, almost as an afterthought, she gathered it all up with an ink-stained hand and let it settle over her shoulder. "I could never get the hang of breathin' out smoke like some sort of steam engine."

Kit shrugged. Oh, well. One more for her then.

The two girls fell into a sort of quiet then, Footsteps lost in whatever thoughts Kit had interrupted her from thinking, and Kit too focused on smoking her cigarette properly to have anything else to say. But it was growing colder out as the sun went down and Kit was beginning to feel a deep, biting chill in her hand. She made up her mind to step inside the lodging house as soon as she finished her smoke.

It seemed as if Footsteps had the same idea right about the time Kit did.

Using her free hand to push herself up off of the stairs, Foosteps unfolded like a tall, thin ladder before absently straightening out the wrinkles in the folds of her skirt. Enough of her shoes were revealed to Kit long enough for her to notice that Footsteps' heels were filed down even more than her own—not in a point like Kit's, but filed shorter. To Kit, Footsteps was another one them giants. The girl was at least a head taller than Kit even though she bowed her head just enough to appear smaller, as if she was aware of that fact.

She cleared her throat and smiled when she had Kit's attention. "You comin' in?" she asked, hugging her journal to her chest.

Kit thought about it for a moment. She had spent a good portion of yesterday afternoon taking a tour of the Greenwich Village Lodging House with Footsteps before she had to interview with Mrs. Heartwick and make up her mind if she wanted to stay, and she knew from past experience that Footsteps, once started, she certainly didn't mind the sound of her own voice. Not, Kit mused to herself, that that was a bad thing, really, especially since she found it interesting to hear someone talk about Ireland with such passion and such fondness, but she feared another talking at if she followed Footsteps right in.

So she nodded. "Aye, but in a moment. I'm just... I'm just gettin' my bearings, you know?"

Footsteps echoed her nod. "I'll see ye inside, Kit."

"_Luath_," she promised.

Alone again, the weight of the world—the weight of our her own story—settled back on Kit's shoulders. The cold was nothing but in the background, the various passersby who traversed up an down Bleecker Street all hours the day nothing but a distant hum, and she sighed.

She resumed a familiar pose, one hand folded across her flat chest, her open palm cupping her elbow, her fingers holding loosely to a cigarette that waited to slip between her lips again. Kit nearly forgot about it for the moment as she looked up at the big building and asked herself the same question that had been plaguing her ever since she left Leitrim—

How in Heaven's name did I end up _here_?

* * *

><p><strong>End Note:<strong> And now we actually get to begin the story. The next chapter will basically start a really long flashback that shows Kit's journey from a small village in Ireland to the bustling Greenwich Village in New York City. We will see the characters mentioned in the last two chapters as well as the moments she only briefly touched upon. There will be Newsies characters cropping up midway through, but first we'll really get to know Kit. And, after meeting her uncle, I hope you guys are even more interested in her story :)

Thank you so much to **settingthesunrise** and **Joker is Poker with a J** for their reviews! I wasn't sure if anyone would be interested in this sort of story and I was really glad to see that you guys like it.

- _stress, 02.12.12_

**Translations**:

_grazie_ - thank you  
><em><em>a leanbh na p<em>_á__irte - __term of endearment, lit. my dear child  
><em>uncail <em>- uncle_  
><em>_luath _- soon


	3. October 13, 1898

**Disclaimer**: Any characters you recognize in this story are the property of Disney and their likenesses are only used for fan related purposes. Any original characters featured are the intellectual property of their creators.

* * *

><p><strong>To the Waters and the Wild<strong>

* * *

><p><em><strong>October 13, 1898<strong>_

For the first mile and a half, Kathleen McElroy couldn't shake the feeling that she was being followed. She would look over her shoulder when the suspicion bordered more on certainty but there was no one behind her—or, she allowed, no one she could see. The highlands of the village were awash with thick trees and autumn foliage so beautiful they made you want to cry, except then it would be even harder to see through the tears.

She tried to act like the strange sense wasn't bothering her, going so far as to chide herself silently for being so silly. There wasn't a soul around apart from the birds and the beasts, and if there was, so what? What was there to fear in Leitrim?

Of course, she had just had that thought when, all of a sudden, the early afternoon air was filled with a sharp snapping sound, a muffled curse and the irritated squawking of a disturbed nest.

Now there was no doubt that someone was near. His clumsiness had lost him any element of surprise he might have been working on and she was facing the trees expectantly by the time a stumbling figure sheepishly appeared. He was tall and lanky, a well-fed scarecrow. His hair was a lighter shade than her chestnut brown, and wavier too. He had his mother's eyes, a warm hazel rather than the icy McElroy blue. She knew him at once, even at the distance.

It was Gideon. She should have expected this. No one else could have had the chance to start off after her and she'd gone this way so many times, she knew exactly what path to take to avoid being seen.

She sighed and paused, waiting for him to catch up to her. After all, he'd come all this way. Let him have his say.

Gideon must have heard the sound because he sucked in his breath as he approached, puffing out his chest and drawing himself up to his full height; it was hardly necessary, seeing as how he was more than a head or two taller than her, but it made him feel more in charge. Nearly three years older than his sister, sometimes Gideon took it upon himself to play the role of her father, especially considering how absent her real one was. She hated it. He had never noticed.

"Kit," he said, and she tried to ignore the disapproval in his tone, even as he called her by her childhood nickname, "you know you're not supposed to be out here on your own. What would the old man say?"

Did she care? Would _he_? "Why? You proposin' to tell him about this?"

Kit's barb was just pointed and sharp enough to deflate her brother. He exhaled slightly. "Well, no—"

"'Cause then you know I'd have to tell him what I caught you and Maizie Kelly doin' out behind the pigpen last week."

Gideon gasped, his freckled cheeks staining pink. "You promised—"

"Aye," she said, and the innocent smile she sported would be no less at home on a cherubim, "and you gave your word that you would stop all this followin' me around rubbish." Kit lost her smile and crossed her arms over her chest. "What I do in the afternoons is my business," she reminded him.

"It's not like the whole village doesn't know where you go."

"It's not Leitrim's business, either, Gideon."

The ice in her voice was chilly enough to make her brother shiver. He rubbed his hands on his arms, a quick movement as if he was embarrassed by his own response, and then he dropped his left arm back to his side. His right hand he used to ruffle his hair before he burst out with: "You could have the pick of any man in the village and you choose him? The old man would send you away just like Uncle Charlie if he ever knew!"

"Gideon," she began in warning, ignoring his mild threat, "it's not like that and ya know it."

"Oh, so you're _not_ on your way to see James Harding?"

Kit took a deep breath and exhaled quickly, spitting the air back out through gritted teeth. It was a sharp whistle that was hardly any softer than the words that followed. "He's my mate. He's the only one I can talk to that's not you, and I'm not so certain that I want to do that any longer. I'm not like your Maizie," she added, and if she wasn't so aggravated at having this same argument _again_, she might've delighted at just how pink he'd gone at the mere mention of Maizie Kelly's name. "I just want to keep my friend... I never thought you'd be the one to take that away from me."

"I'm sorry, Kit," he apologized, slightly abashed and ashamed at her words, "that's not what I was inferrin' at all." He meant it, too. Gideon preferred it when Kit yelled and made a fuss; the quiet unnerved him and made him feel guilty for following after her—which, of course, was her intent. Still he went on to add, because he had to, "All the same, even you have got to see it's not right. A farm that big, they can't spare a one of their five sons and yet... they let the youngest tinker about, fiddlin' with those silly inventions—"

"They're not silly, they're brilliant!" cut in Kit loyally. Her voice had climbed until it wasn't a murmur but a barely restrained shout instead. It was a struggle not to let her temper flare and with her brother the only one around to serve as witness, Kit didn't think she would care if she did lose it.

Gideon obviously did. He raised his hand in a placating gesture, trying to calm her. "Brilliant or no, he should be toilin' the land like his brothers. Like his folks."

"Mrs. Harding thinks they're brilliant, too."

He could see he wasn't going to win this argument; he never had before but that didn't stop him from attempting to time and time again. Kit would forever deny that her attachment to Jimmy Harding was the least bit romantic, but there was no denying that she was definitely attached to the farmer's youngest boy.

Still, he gave it one last try: "All I'm sayin' is it's not right, tinkerin' with those machines when there's good, honest work that could be done. _An Gorta Mór _may be over, Kit, but there's those that are still starvin'."

Kit stopped listening to him when he mentioned good, honest work; that usually signaled the end of her actually trying to see his point. As the son of the richest man in Village Leitrim—County Leitrim, too, if not more of Ireland—Gideon had never had to put his hands to good, honest work. Only her affection for her brother, even with his block-headed, if well-intentioned, comments, kept her from responding.

That wasn't to say that her patience wasn't wearing thin. It was. Every minute spent arguing with Gideon was another minute wasted. This was the first time in close to a week she dared head out on her own. Of course Gideon would try his best to stop her, probably in some sort of skewed sense of propriety. It was laughable, really, and if she wasn't already taking too much time, she might have found a smidge of pleasure in baiting her brother.

Sometimes, it was just _too _easy.

Kit crossed her arms over her chest and looked up at Gideon. "I think we might be at an impasse here then, brother. You seem set that I shouldn't go—"

Gideon nodded solemnly, just as she expected.

"—and I've already given my word that I'd visit me friend today. Are ya really gonna try and keep me from goin'? It' just _Jimmy,_" she added, though she was perfectly aware that that was the exact reason why her brother wanted to stop her in the first place.

For a moment, one terse moment, it seemed like Gideon was going to keep on arguing. That he was going to insist that she follow him back home and Kit... she wouldn't listen, no, but she might actually feel a touch bad about disobeying him when all he was doing was, as best he could, look out for her.

And then he deflated fully and she knew that she had, like always, won out.

_Good_.

"All right, but what should I tell the old man?"

At that Kit laughed. It was such a wry laugh, one you wouldn't expect from such a petite and lovely creature. Her eyes flashed coldly. "Ah, Gideon, I think you and I both know that you won't be needin' to tell Da anything at all. He's far too satisfied pretendin' not to see me sneakin' out of the house to start askin' questions _now_."

Gideon didn't have anything to say in reply. Partly because he recognized that glint in his sister's eyes, and mostly because, well, he knew she was right.

* * *

><p>Because of her confrontation with her brother, by the time Kit arrived at the waterfall Jimmy was already waiting for her, resting up against a massive, moss-covered boulder that sat in the center of the clearing that blossomed from the edge.<p>

James Harding was a short, stocky young man—short for a man, but still a head or so taller than Kit—with fair hair, closer to the color of straw than anything else, that stuck up at odd angles. He wasn't all that handsome, with his crooked nose that always looked broken (courtesy of having four older brothers, sometimes it _was_) and a walnut-sized burn on his cheek below his right eye, but there was just something about him that made him likeable. Sometimes, thought Kit, it was the fact that Jimmy seemed able to find the good in anyone else.

Including—and this is what surprised her the most—_her_.

Kit waved her hand at him and Jimmy beckoned her closer with his. He had an infectious laugh, a soothing, soft sort of chuckle that always seemed to dispel any gloom that hung over her head. Though she almost tripped in the grass, Kit hurried over to where he was waiting for her.

Then, as was her custom, she folded the skirt of her expensive frock underneath her, hardly caring if it got torn or soiled, and then sank to the ground at Jimmy's feet, resting her side along the edge of the boulder he was so fond of leaning up against. She poked him in the knee of his trouser. "So," she said abruptly, though she smiled winningly up at her friend as she held out her hand, "did you get it?"

Jimmy nodded, taking the chance to return her smile first before he answered her. "I nicked it from Connor's supply when he slipped out of bed last night." He drew a crinkled hand-rolled cigarette out of his pocket, loose tobacco shag fluttering to the grass as he leaned over and placed the thing against Kit's waiting palm with a mildly distasteful expression. "I don't know how you can smoke these things."

Kit stuck her tongue out while trying to straighten out the fold in the fold. "Aye, and it's your fault, Jimmy Harding, so don't you go on pretendin' otherwise."

That was true. Jimmy had four older brothers—Connor, Seamus, Mark and Daniel—and each and every one of them smoked. Last year, on the eve of Jimmy's fifteenth birthday, he decided it was time he picked up the habit. It lasted all of half the first cigarette. Red in the face and choking from the smoke, he heard Kit's laughter and offered the rest to her cheekily to see if she could do better. The funny thing—at least to Kit, not so much to Jimmy—was that she did. One year later and she craved the taste, even if she only got to taste it when Jimmy pilfered one for her.

She had snuck a box of her father's matches in the front pocket of her frock. Still a little hesitant when it came to striking the match and catching the fire, she offered it out to Jimmy who did it for her without batting an eye. Kit had the cigarette perched precariously on the edge of her lips. She inhaled just enough for the flame to ignite the tip when Jimmy placed it to the ends. Ah... much better.

"You know," Jimmy said, his voice a soft tinkle like the water streaming in the brook, "if I didn't know any better meself, I'd think you'd only come here for a wee taste of Harding tobacco."

"That's not true," Kit argued, her words mumbled and nearly lost. She removed the cigarette, keeping it between her second and third fingers as if it belonged there. "But thank ya anyway," she told him, remembering her manners at last. She paused. "And it's not like it's the _only_ reason..."

Jimmy just blew out the match before the flame licked his fingers. And then he laughed again.

* * *

><p>"<em>Samain<em>'s approaching."

Kit was trying to teach herself to exhale rings of smoke. The closest she had come was to making a sort of oblong shape that happened when she inhaled too deeply and coughed the smoke out. There were wrinkles in her brow as she concentrated. She could spare only a smidgen of attention for Jimmy just then.

"Eh?"

"_Samain_," he repeated. "It's at the end of the month already. You doin' anything for it, Kit?"

She shook her head, hoping this wasn't going where she thought it was. Please don't let him mention—

"Only, the village is all talkin' about the grand gathering you father will be throwin'. All the nobs are gonna be there." Jimmy waited for a second. "Not me, though. My family's not invited."

Kit closed her eyes. Ah, so it _was_ going there. She blew out another lungful of smoke and then murmured, "Me, neither."

When he didn't say anything, she peeked over at him. Jimmy was watching her with a playful expression, an easy-going curve to his grin and laugh-lines creasing the ends of his eyes. The red shiny patch of his burn—a memento left of an early invention gone sour—wasn't as noticeable when he grinned like that.

She gave her head a royal, defiant shake. "Da would rather swig poteen in the pigpen than let any of his guests set eye on his wayward daughter."

"You can spend_ Samain_ with me then," offered Jimmy kindly.

Kindly, thought Kit, which somehow made it worse. "I won't be a burden to your folks," she said loftily, thinking of Mr. and Mrs. Harding: tired, careworn, and still far kinder than Kit could ever remember her father being. "You celebrate with your family, Jim, I'll sit with Gideon if he'll have me."

"Or we could go alone, me and you. Sneak out while they're all celebratin', right? No one'll see us go, we can meet somewhere nice," he added, letting his hand fall and settle on her shoulder, almost as if it was a fair coincidence that it landed there, "maybe even go dancin' on the hilltop—"

"Tell me about your newest invention," Kit interrupted, jerking away from him as she jumped to her feet. She threw the spent cigarette roughly to the grass and mashed it with her heel, looking at Jimmy out of the corner of eye. Pity... she swore she could see it there. She attempted an expression of pure interest. "How's it coming along?"

If was there was one topic of conversation she longed to avoid, it was the topic of her father, his status, his wealth, his snobbery toward the rest of Village Leitrim, almost as if he thought he was too good for the rest of them; if there was another, it was how Jimmy felt their friendship _was_ something they had to hide when, if Kit had it her way, she would tell the whole of the village that she preferred him as a friend to any of the local girls. As it was, she sometimes wondered if he only accepted her company because he pitied her, but always pushed those thoughts aside. This was _Jimmy_, after all.

On the other hand, though, there was nothing he liked to talk about more than his inventions and they both knew it. Her intentions were as transparent as a glass window but they were both too used to pulling the curtains closed in their way to acknowledge _that_.

Still, Jimmy squinted just enough to be noticeable, his eyes narrowed knowingly at her angry display but, wisely, said nothing. At least, not about her reaction. Taking a deep breath, he launched into the specifics of his new invention—some sort of advanced harvester that would make his family's work on the farm even more successful—while Kit, after a few tense moments, resumed her seat at his feet, trying her best to listen while pretending, if only for the moment, that she wasn't Kathleen McElroy.

And that's how they spent the afternoon—like they did most afternoons when Mr. Harding hadn't roped his boy into leaving his inventions and Kit avoided Mr. McElroy long enough to sneak out for the whole of midday. And then the sun would begin to set and Kit would set back off for home, leaving Jimmy to make the even longer trek back to his family's farm.

No witnesses, no village gossip, just two childhood chums who didn't know what to do or, in Kit's case, didn't give a damn about what was expected of them now that they were grown. They could be together. Alone. Comfortable, even.

Unless—

It was about two hours into the visit when it happened. Jimmy had talked her ear off about his new invention, laughing contentedly to himself when her soft snuffles meant that Kit had dozed off partway through the explanation. She woke up later with the smell of dirt and grass and the glorious fresh air of the hilltop in her nose, aware that she was leaning her cheek against Jimmy's shin.

Lazily, she pulled away from him and rested the back of her head against his calf. Jimmy teased her, just like he always teased her, and she swatted him playfully. With a simple question about the harvest—anything to keep the subject falling back on _Samain_—Jimmy was off, talking again, when all of a sudden—

"Kit! I knew I'd find you here!"

At the sound of her name, Kit was on her feet, wide awake and alert, searching for the source. She whirled around, desperate to see who had found her and Jimmy, her eyes flashing darkly she recognized the shadow slipping silently from the safety of the trees. He was better this time. Not so clumsy. Kit had never expected this.

After that morning, she probably she should have.

"Gideon?" What was he doing there? How long had he been watching? She scowled, one hand balled into an angry fist at her sides. The other she clamped over her breast, trying to still her fluttering heart. "Oh, Gideon, I should tan your hide, I should! What did I tell you about followin' me 'round? Followin' me _here_?"

Her brother paused, keeping a good distance between where he stood and Kit visibly fumed. Because, if there was one thing Gideon McElroy knew better than any man in all of Leitrim, it was this: his sister may be a tiny thing on the outside but her ferocity, the amount of pent-up anger she could store in so small a frame... she was like a bottle of that bubbly champagne his father favored, pretty on the outside but give her a shake and it didn't take much to make her explode. It was no wonder that, despite being nearly twice her size, he lingered on the edge of the clearing. If simply following behind her—as she accused—wasn't enough to set Kit off, then intruding on her when she was sitting out with Jimmy Harding was.

Gideon glanced over at the younger boy leaning lazily up against a moss-covered boulder, right next to Kit. He offered him a pleading nod, silently entreating Jimmy for help as he greeted him cordially, "Afternoon, Harding."

"McElroy," said Jimmy with a leisurely wave back. Jimmy and Gideon had never really got on—the only thing they shared in common was an affection for Kit—but the farmer's son caught the hint and nodded all the same. Then, reaching with the hand he'd been waving out, he let it rest gently on Kit's arm. "Be nice," he told her softly, "I'm sure your brother didn't choose to walk back all this way again unless he felt he had to. He must have a reason... why not ask him?"

"What?" Kit had been glaring daggers up at Gideon but stopped when she felt the slight pressure of Jimmy's warm hand and realized that he was talking to her. She listened, the dark edge to her gaze fading slightly, before she let out a huff that Gideon couldn't help but hear.

"Oh, _fine,_" she said, though she was grinning a bit, a strained grin but a grin all the same, "put it that way, Jim, and I can't help but seein' your point." She turned to look at her brother who, knowing full well how Kit felt about this place, couldn't bring himself to move any closer. "What's your reason, Gideon? Why are you here?"

For a moment he didn't answer; he just marveled. Gideon couldn't understand it, how Jimmy Harding was the only person who could get Kit to listen these days. His sister had always been difficult but after their mother's death... He saw the way she deferred to Jimmy, how Kit agreed with him while looking at his bright, honest face in such an openly trusting, adoring way that Gideon momentarily experienced a rare rush of jealousy.

Maizie Kelly never looked at _him _like that.

And it wasn't like he didn't have a reason to trek this far after his sister. He did_..._ and then he remembered precisely what that reason was and his heart sank down to his feet.

"I wasn't followin' ya, Kit, I swear. I was simply comin' to... to collect you."

Quick as a flash, Kit's guarded expression was back. She ached for another cigarette but knew there weren't any left; Jimmy had only brought the one he thought Connor wouldn't miss. Besides, she wasn't so forward that she would let her brother see her walking around with one, her supposing to be a lady and Gideon too easily scandalized.

She licked her lips and took a deep breath. "Aye? And for what?"

"The old man. He wants to see you."

_The old man_... each and everyone in the clearing knew who Gideon meant.

While Kit was still young—being only one month shy of her sixteenth birthday—and, well, female enough to call her father "Da", Gideon referred to Joseph McElroy as "Sir" when in his company and "the old man" when out of it. That was one thing Kit often wondered about, why Gideon did that, but she could never bring herself to ask.

Just like she couldn't bring herself to ask about her father now.

"Oh." Kit looked away from her brother only to search out Jimmy. Another unsaid questioning hung right there in the air.

Jimmy nodded. "You should go," he said, already starting to rise from his slouched position. "I'll make sure to be waiting for you here tomorrow if you come."

The defiant edge that lived in her voice these days was eerily missing as Kit simply replied, "Aye."

Neither one of them noted that, if Mr. McElroy had summoned his only daughter to see him, there might not be another secret meeting between the two outcast friends again, tomorrow or otherwise.

* * *

><p>Kit McElroy, by nature, wasn't a very curious girl. Things were either the way they were or they weren't and worrying about them, wondering over them, asking herself countless questions over that which she had no control... what good would it do? Her father called for her, he sent Gideon to retrieve her—both undeniable facts—and she followed after her older brother without another word on the subject.<p>

Gideon, plenty of worries on his mind—because, unlike Kit, he was of the worrying sort—knew better than to try and get his sister talking. He was too preoccupied with his father's unusual command and what it might mean for Kit and him both to try any aimless chatting on a subject that wouldn't interest either of them.

Therefore they spent the two mile journey back to the McElroy House—house being too simple a word for the grand manor Joseph McElroy owned which told you exactly what sort of man McElroy was—in companionable silence. Gideon opened the gate, ushering Kit in first, and then let the iron trap shut with a click that sounded all too ominous to the girl.

They went in past the infamous pigpen, past the decorative haystacks, and through the back in order to avoid the servants, Gideon leading the way straight to their father's study on the ground floor of the house. When they arrived at last, promptly because Kit didn't have it in her heart to bait her anxious brother by dawdling, Gideon gave her one last apologetic look before knocking on the grand mahogany door before them.

Mr. McElroy never responded to the first knock, not even when he was expecting company—his children or anyone else. Gideon paused for the appropriate amount of time then knocked again. Partway through that second rapping a stern, no-nonsense sort of voice rang out:

"I hope, for the sake of who's knocking, that it's you, Gideon, my boy."

Gideon barely found his voice in time to answer. "Yes, sir."

"Then I also hope, but for your sake, that you've brought that sister of yours with you."

Gideon cast a sideways glance down at Kit. "Yes, sir. Kathleen's right here with me."

Kathleen, she thought. Another one of her brother's strange little quirks. Whenever it was just the two of them, she was Kit, but as soon as her father was present... _Kathleen_—

"Let her in."

Mr. McElroy's order was direct and clear. Gideon immediately pushed the grand door inward and stepped aside so that Kit could enter. Before she did, she turned to look at her brother, her eyebrows slightly raised. He answered her with an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

She was on her own for this one.

* * *

><p><strong>End Note:<strong> Now we kind of get an idea of that this story is going to be about. The first two chapters were a prologue of sorts, showing Kit Harding as she is when her initial journey - the journey from Ireland to New York, the transformation of Kathleen McElroy to Kit Harding - is complete. However, we have to rewind about a year and a half to start her journey. So this chapter is the real beginning and everything happens from this point on will lead to the moment when Kit moves into the Greenwich Village Lodging House. Hope that makes sense :)

- _stress, 02.26.12_

**Translations**:

_Samain: _Samhain/Gaelic Harvest Festival that takes place October 31-November 1_  
>an Gorta Mór: <em>The Great Hunger/The Great Irish Famine, 1845-1852


End file.
